Lighter Still
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: In the privacy of his quarters, Tom Paris tugs at his uniform trousers, feeling the waistband dig uncomfortably into his skin before he's even attempted to zip them.
1. I

**Author's Note:**_ A one-off I started writing sometime ago, but then started growing and growing as I tried to finish it this week. Still on the shortish side, but being posted in increments because I'm just mercenary enough to want to drag it out in the feed. ;-) _

_Begins mid fourth season and ends just before the events of the fifth season episode "Counterpoint"._

* * *

><p><strong>Lighter Still<strong>

**I.**

In the privacy of his quarters, Tom Paris tugs at his uniform trousers, feeling the waistband dig uncomfortably into his skin before he's even attempted to zip them.

He catalogues the increasing girth of his midsection with a grimace. Then, with a mental curse, attempts to wrestle with the protesting garment once again.

"Having a little trouble, flyboy?" comes B'Elanna's teasing voice behind him. No doubt, watching him in amusement, from the threshold of his bathroom.

The pilot sucks in one last deep breath and zips the straining material, then turns around to confirm his suspicions. B'Elanna is standing in only her skivvies, her elegantly muscled arms crossed in front of her chest.

"It seems I'm losing my boyish figure," he says, burying his embarrassment in a quip.

His lover's only response is a smirk as she turns around to continue dressing, but Tom can fill in the rest of the conversation for himself. He's been on the receiving end of a few too many 'affectionate belly pats' for him to not have caught the message; B'Elanna's been trying to tell him something- albeit, in subtler terms than his uniform just did.

_Time to get serious, buddy_, Tom sighs inwardly. _Won't do to pack on the kilos when you've finally got the girl. _

. . . . .

The next week, Tom tries to cut back on junk and fill his plate with veggies, but the last part proves more painful than the first. Neelix has a way of rendering every vegetable (however initially promising) completely inedible with his 'special' seasonings, and isn't as if his replicator account will support very much of an escape from the Talaxian's pantry.

"What's up with you?" Harry asks him finally, after the fourth lunch of watching his friend unhappily swirl his food around his plate.

"I have to get this weight off," Tom confesses. "But between not eating the foods I like, and filling my stomach with Neelix's daily tour of locally grown culinary nightmares, I'm starting to think I'm better off being fat and happy."

Harry pauses to reflect on Tom's words, forking another bite of his generously portioned plate.

"So, maybe you should focus on your exercise?" the Ensign finally offers, belatedly cluing into the way Paris is intently watching him eat. "It's a basic equation of calories in, calories out. . . Why not try to up the number of calories you expend instead of trying to cut the number you consume?"

It's good advice, really. And part of Tom knows that Harry has a point. But another part of him is irrationally angry that Harry is still young enough that he can eat whatever he wants, without having to do caloric calculus before he sets down to every meal.

"Fair enough," Tom says neutrally, and then swipes a forkful of Harry's pasta salad.

"Hey," Harry protests, "_I'm _not the one who needs to lose weight."

"Harry, Harry. As your friendly ship medic, it's _my duty _to advise you that the best medicine is always prevention."

"Don't mind me," Kim sighs with a wave of surrender, then pushes the rest of his tray to the smirking Lieutenant who happily pulls it the rest of the way.

. . . . .

It's another two weeks into Tom's resolution before he settles on an exercise regimen. He's hardly opposed to being active, but the problem is he's both a creature of habit and someone who's easily bored. He needs something that he can do almost everyday yet will continue to challenge him; an activity that won't be difficult to maintain with his lifestyle of changing shift schedules and low-level ship emergencies.

It's with some optimism that he settles on the idea of running, as it's something he did competitively in prep school and his first year at the Academy, back before piloting took up most of his time and concentration. And though he was never really the fastest person on a given team, he vaguely recalls liking the routine that went with competing in track; the feeling of getting up each morning and looking forward to the certainty of a run.

The first morning he takes it easy, only five kilometers, zigzagging the lower decks of the ship. But even afterward, when he slides into his seat on the bridge, he thinks he can already feel a difference; a pulse of energy and concentration that displaces his usual beginning-of-shift haze.

All the optimism he feels quickly fizzles after a few days of waking up at 05:00, and then, later, feeling his aging body protest the new abuse. When he gets into bed at night, he imagines he can feel every inflamed joint and aggravated muscle, the lone comfort of his condition being that B'Elanna has been on a later shift all week, preventing him from having to back out of any dates. . . He can only imagine what the Chief would say if he had to explain he didn't have anymore physical performance left in him.

After ten days of his new routine, he opens his eyes to his alarm filled with dread at the prospect of putting on his athletic shoes. He doesn't want to run. And he no longer gives a damn about his straining uniform. So be it if he ends up roughly equal with Chakotay in heft.

The last thought proves a new, if short-lived source of motivation; he drags himself- tired, aching, and cranky- out of bed.

As a last-ditch effort, he decides to try running on the holodeck. He thinks it a shame to use up his holo- privileges on exercise, but if it's a choice between this and going back to eating Talaxian chef salads, it's at least worth the initial investment.

He's in the midst of both stretching and trying to shake off his pessimism when the holodeck doors part, admitting a lone figure that stands in stark contrast to the orange grid.

"You're up early, Lieutenant," comes Janeway's voice.

She isn't dressed in uniform, something that's a rare sight lately. But Tom is too resentful of the hour to think about the state of Janeway's appearance, or even focus much on her presence.

"So are you, ma'am," he replies, a little gruffly. And with no further comment, begins stretching out again.

The Captain watches him for a moment, but then appears to realize she's barged in on him without invitation, and, thus far, without excuse.

"Sorry to interrupt your time. . . The holodeck isn't normally occupied at this hour and I was thinking of borrowing one of Tuvok's programs."

"Perhaps a nice mutiny simulation to get your blood pumping?"

She grimaces momentary, but then apparently decides to let the inappropriate joke slide. After all, they're alone and she knows Tom doesn't mean anything by it.

"Actually, I was going to use one of his meditation programs. He and Chakotay both seem to think it would be. . . beneficial."

At this, Tom's eyebrows shoot up, but he wisely makes no comment. The Captain's been under more strain than normal since the addition of Seven of Nine, that much is plain to see. At least, plain in what he does see of her, Janeway having essentially disappeared from public view except for duty shifts and occasional meals.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Captain , but you don't seem the meditative type."

"Oh?"

"You're a little too. . . action-oriented."

Janeway gives a lopsided smirk. 'Action-oriented' is perhaps the nicest way anyone has ever called her high strung.

"Maybe that's right," she sighs. "But speaking of action-oriented people, what _are_ you doing here, so early in the morning?"

"You mean besides chatting with my charming Captain?"

"Flattery won't get you of the question, Lieutenant."

"Well," he begins, standing up straight for the first time since she entered, "if you must know, I was just warming up for a run."

"I didn't know you liked to run," she says, crossing her arms.

"Tell ya the truth, I haven't for sometime. Used to, years ago. But this will be the first time I've picked up the habit since my Academy days. . . Can't say that I'm finding it as _rewarding _as I remembered, either."

" But here you are anyway," she observes. "This sudden swell of dedication owing to. . . ?"

"The sudden swell of my waistline," he replies flatly. Apparently, it's too early in the morning for either his self-consciousness or his dignity to be awake.

"Happens to the best of us," she says ruefully.

The last comment earns Janeway a skeptical glance, Paris pointedly looking at her own trim figure.

"Right," he murmurs sarcastically.

"Lucky for me, my favorite food contains not a single calorie."

"_Captain_, coffee is _not _a food."

"I think we'll have to agree to disagree on that."

Paris thinks to counter her comment with another joke, but stops when he mentally calculates the time. He came into the holodeck with only an hour in which to run, and as he stands here bantering with Janeway, that time is quickly slipping away.

"I'm sorry," she says, reading the expression on his face. "I'm keeping you."

"No, it's alright," he shake his head. "Talking to you was a nice distraction. Honestly."

The earnestness in his voice makes her smile. They both stand still for a moment, not quite ready to break the comfort of their conversation for the individual projects neither find quite. . . inspiring.

"Tell you what," Tom comments, suddenly struck by a thought. "If you're willing to abandon your _scintillating plans _of Vulcan mediation, you can join me in a morning run?"

The Captain's mouth quirks up at the taunt-wrapped invitation that only Tom Paris would slide to her. But still, she shakes her head in refusal.

"I admit it's a tempting offer- I've always found running to be invigorating. But I wouldn't want to interrupt you. The addition of another runner would upset your pace."

"Ha," Tom scoffs. "You'd be welcome company. And as of this week, my only pace has been 'keep going'."

"That happens to be my favorite pace," Janeway nods. "So, in that case, I accept."

He calls for some suitable clothing for her, as well as place to change, but when he indicates that he'll wait while she warms up, she waves him off with her characteristic brand of confidence.

"I'll be fine, Tom. It's been a while since I did it regularly, but I used to be quite the runner- never took the time to stretch."

The pilot bites back any warnings, knowing they're almost assuredly going to be ignored.

"Whenever you're ready then," he shrugs, scanning through the holodeck's files for a suitable location. "Any requests?"

"Someplace low in humidity," she says neutrally.

It's not the kind of request he expected, but hardly difficult to satisfy. He taps at the console and a moment later a lush landscape of vibrant autumn hues materializes around them.

"Beautiful," Janeway spontaneously assents. "New England?"

"Gatineau hills," he corrects. "Quebec."

It's without much further comment that they're taking off, setting a conservative pace down the sloped tree-lined path. Quickly Tom observes that, warmed up or not, Janeway's shorter legs are having no trouble matching his longer strides. Fifteen minutes later, when they hit the first steep incline, he decides to push it- just a little.

He's torn between annoyance and admiration when the woman next to him matches his increased speed with ease, her legs gliding across the pavement and her exhalations puffing out in the crisp air at a remarkably even rate.

When an even steeper bend looms later, Tom pumps his limbs, his movements (fueled by an already kindled sense of competitiveness) falling into an even tighter rhythm. Seeing Janeway's auburn head pop back into his peripheral vision, the sentiment of quasi-admiration quickly morphs into frustration. Here he's been training for a week and half, and this woman (of _remarkably_ shorter stride) is making him feel like a cargo freighter trying to outrun the _Enterprise_.

The yellow and orange trees blur in his vision. He ignores the pain building up in his legs; pushes himself harder, faster, even as Janeway continues to match his course.

They come to the end of the ten-kilometer path with Tom still desperately trying to pull ahead of his companion. It's only when they slow and stop- side by side- that the pilot feels, really _feels_, the flames engulfing his lungs and the build up of lactic acid in his limbs.

"That was wonderful," Janeway beams eventually, her breathing uneven but not nearly as haggard as his. "Thanks for the morning shot of energy. Almost as good as a cup of coffee."

After they say their temporary good-byes, he allows her to leave the holodeck two minutes earlier than him.

Tom gets on the turbolift alone, leaning his head against the wall, followed soon by most of his weight. The realization that he still has a nine-hour shift to get through is something he can neither ignore, nor, at the present moment, bring himself to acknowledge.

. . . . .

"Hi gang," Tom greets enthusiastically, sitting down at the mess hall table Harry and B'Elanna have already selected. "How's Neelix's latest attempt at lasagna going over?"

Harry eyes his friend's cheerful face with some degree of interest. This, by far, is the peppiest Tom's been all week, and it's coming at the end of day which began with same man sitting down at the conn looking a little worse for ware.

"I can't decide if it's meant to be eaten or used as replacement hull plating," B'Elanna replies.

"So, a win for our supply list even if a loss for our taste buds," Paris pronounces, then shovels some of the offending dish into his mouth, just as soon his tray and backside both make contact with the table.

Leaning forward to get Harry's attention, the engineer nods in Tom's direction.

"What's with Captain Chipper here?"

"I was going to ask _you_," Harry says casually, if with a bit of a leading look. "He certainly wasn't this happy at the _beginning_ of the day."

"Starfleet, if you're implying what I think you're implying- you're a pig, just like your friend. And not that it's any of your business, but I worked straight through lunch, meaning we didn't have to . . . _see _each other."

"Whatever you say, Chief," Harry smiles, a little too innocently, and for good measure B'Elanna puts a bit more energy into her glare.

"Has it occurred to either of you that I'm right here?" Tom drawls, though without any sign of annoyance. "You could just _ask_ why I'm so cheerful."

"We could," B'Elanna says. But then makes a show of focusing on her dinner.

When Tom pouts, B'Elanna lets loose a repressed smirk and Harry laughs, leaning back and folding his arms.

"Alright, Paris. We give. What is it? What miracle has transformed you from the whiny, lethargic man we've all come to know and tolerate lately to this bundle of energy and light before us?"

"_Whiny_?"

"Spill it," B'Elanna warns, raising a palm to silent the rest of her lover's protest.

"Believe it or not, guys. . . I just had a good morning."

"A good morning?" Harry repeats, his skepticism dripping down to pool with. . . _whatever it is _that's congealed at the top of Neelix's lasagna.

"Yep."

"So the reason showed up at the beginning of shift looking like you'd just been chased by a flock of Kavarian tiger bats was that. . . ?"

"Well. . . I admit that the day started out a little rough around the edges after a bit of a taxing run. But, ya know, my energy came back to me two-fold by lunchtime. And when I got to thinking about it, I realized that the time I ran this morning wasn't that far off from my average times at the Academy."

As Tom finishes his explanation, having been smiling into his beverage, he looks to his right just in time to see B'Elanna's lips flirt with a smirk before they're hidden behind her Klingon coffee. Across from her, Harry's face remains _remarkably _neutral.

_Oh_, Tom thinks. _Got it. _

"I know you probably think. . . I realize this looks like a passing phase," he begins haltingly .

The immediate, chorused denials from both companions deter anything he would have said.

It isn't that they're being unsupportive, nor are their assumptions unreasonable. Male crisis- midlife and otherwise- is a theme that's up there with lust, betrayal, and greed in the tapestry of human history. Add in that this was all kicked off by the desire to shed a few kilos, then that last remark about his running times in the Academy, and his behavior starts to look a little cliché. Even Tom can see it.

The problem is that, to Tom, this newfound interest isn't just some male cliché. It's _his_ life. _His _body. And now, unfortunately, _his_ best friend and girlfriend he feels oddly estranged from.

Forcing a smile, he meets Harry's measured stare, watching as two dark eyes blink and blink and blink.

"Anything to note for the good of the order?" Tom deflects, raising an eyebrow in invitation of a new topic.

"Vorick's still getting on my nerves?" B'Elanna offers. And a little bit of the awkwardness Tom feels is displaced by amusement.

"And you're such a _patient_ person," Harry says, maintaining the same deadpan expression.

"Is it just me, or is our young Mister Kim getting braver?" Tom whispers, too loudly, into B'Elanna's ear.

"You call it 'bravery'. I call it being an idiot. Either way, I liked him better back when we was terrified of me."

However brooding B'Elanna sounds, her companions know the words are devoid of malice. Harry opens his mouth to volley another comment back when his eyes lock onto something behind the others' backs.

"What?" Tom asks, turning around. And then he spots the object of Harry's interest. Standing at the entrance of the mess hall is Chakotay, his eyes scanning the room for someone or something, other than just a place to sit.

After more fruitless searching, the Commander gives up, an air of deflation briefly appearing before he greets passing crew with a smile, then stands in line to grab a tray.

"You think she stood him up? He looks disappointed. . ."

B'Elanna and Tom exchange looks, keenly aware of whom Harry's 'she' refers to. For an officer generally opposed to gossip, the Ensign expends a great deal of energy analyzing the behavior of a certain ship's command team.

Though Tom rarely encourages this line of conversation, he doesn't think Harry's interest is either malicious or idle chatter. Tom's come to understand that his friend is defined by optimism, and part of that optimism is wanting everyone around him to be happy; Harry genuinely wants the good guy to win, someone to ride off into the sunset, and for there to be a rainbow after every storm.

Why a Janeway-Chakotay pairing is supposedly something that will make all concerned parties happy, Tom isn't entirely sure. But he knows that for Harry this thesis is a given, like wanting to get home and his mother's pies tasting better than replicated.

"I don't know," Tom shrugs, not having much to really comment.

"They were awfully quiet on the bridge today," Harry observes. "Very little banter."

Tom scans his memory to see if this is right, but the only thing he remembers about the first half of his shift is his entire body aching.

"Maybe," the pilot allows, and B'Elanna just sticks to her dinner.

When Chakotay ends up sitting at the table next to them, Paris nods politely, a greeting that's promptly returned.

He'll never say it out loud, but in a way Tom thinks Harry's right about the nature of Chakotay's relationship with the Captain. Granted, he doesn't think anything physical is going on- protocol is too much a part of Janeway's blood, maybe Chakotay's, too. But whether or not he's close with the Commander, Tom can tell that the emotional is something far more important to the man than the flesh ever could be. And he's always, from the very moment he met Janeway, known that the most private parts of the woman are the things she keeps in the space between her ears.

Put those facts together with the obvious intimacy and respect the two share, and yes, you get something that looks very much like a relationship. Regardless of who sleeps where.

"You think they're on the outs?"

Harry's question interrupts Tom's chain of thought, his immediate inclination being to note that Janeway seemed fairly chipper that morning. However, given the previous awkwardness, he doesn't particularly want to revisit the topic of his daily exercise.

"I'm sure everything's fine," Tom shakes his head.

"Perhaps instead of worrying about Chakotay's love life, you should worry about your own," B'Elanna teases lightly.

The table's banter restarts and shifts, their dinners quickly finished. But every few minutes, Tom can't help but look over at where Chakotay sits, an aura of heaviness about the Commanders despite the bright smile he offers his dining companions.

. . . . .


	2. II

**II.**

"Computer, calculate distance and running time."

"_Distance is 6.32 kilometers, traversed in 35 minutes, 19 seconds."_

"Fuck. . . Really?"

"_Please re-state the command."_

Tom wipes the sweat from his eyes, ignoring the computer's last attempt to interpret his colorful language. He begins to slowly walk the sunny hillside after two more minutes of standing in the same spot- angry and winded; no matter the paltry distance he ran and the mediocre time he did it in, it won't do skip his cool down and then end up in a universe of pain.

Perhaps it was a mistake not to keep track of his speed as he went, but he honestly thought he'd exceeded the clip he ran at yesterday, with Janeway. To say nothing of the fact that he didn't even manage to match the number of kilometers he put up in that run, coming short now by almost twenty percent.

When he leaves the holodeck to shower and change for his shift in Sickbay, it's laden with dejection and the pain of aching joints.

. . . . .

"Something wrong, Mister Paris?"

The Doctor's voice surprises Tom as he's giving himself an analgesic. The Lieutenant turns to face his holographic boss with the pale skin around his prominent cheekbones flushing a subtle shade of pink.

"You know how I feel about self-medicating," the Doctor admonishes crisply.

"I made a note of it in the record," Tom points out. "Very by-the-book."

The EMH's only reply to this thin defense is a haughty eye-roll before he turns and faces a console, examining the results of the experiments his assistant was supposed to be monitoring.

"May I inquire as to _what _you have been doing to your body that it is now putting up such stringent protest? Or should I instead direct my concerns to the ship's Chief Engineer?"

The pilot gives the Doctor a withering look for the over the remark that lands well over the line.

Maybe he and B'Elanna are too public a couple, but even if all of their previous behavior had been the result of poor judgment rather than alien experiment, it wouldn't make their private lives the kind of public domain everyone takes it as. He's sick of the crew, other than maybe Harry, making comments to him about sex life. Just because he is without B'Elanna's Klingon temper doesn't mean he won't, eventually, put someone through a wall.

"Running," Tom says tersely. His first two chosen retorts bitten back by the desire to avoid a lecture from the Captain, or (worse) Chakotay, on the expectations of professional conduct.

"Running," the Doctor repeats, with a disgusted shake of his head. "I will never understand the human fascination with forcing one's skeletal structure to adapt to high-impact activities that inevitably lead to deterioration and chronic inflammation. What have your bodies ever done to you, other than support your consciousness, thereby facilitating a lifetime _replete_ with poor choices?"

"Doc, wasn't the Captain supposed to be here for her check-up ten minutes ago?"

It's a desperate grab for a change of subject, and Tom feels a little guilty for throwing Janeway under the proverbial shuttle. But if this conversation keeps going the way it has, Bad Things are going to happen for the Doctor. And then, by direct consequence, for Tom himself.

"So she was," the EMH huffs, having consulted his internal chronometer. "Computer, location of Captain Janeway."

"_Captain Janeway is on deck one, section three."_

"_Why_ is she in her ready room when she should be on her way to her check-up?" the Doctor shouts with agitation.

"_Insufficient information."_

"That was rhetorical!" the Doctor declares dramatically, then mutters a string of comments about the inelegance of _certain_ program matrices.

"Should we comm her?" Tom asks. His blue eyes big, and unconvincingly innocent.

In the early days, the Doctor would have commed the Captain in a snit, demanding that she come down to Sickbay. However, after almost four years of dealing with Janeway's crisp refusals or out-and-out excuses, the EMH's tactics have altered. He'll neither comm the Captain to cite her lapse, nor passive-aggressively comment on her absence the next time he sees her. Instead, like the intelligent and adaptive being he is, he'll bide his time. . . Lying in wait for his prey.

"No need," the Doctor says darkly. And without a further word, retreats to the privacy of his office, to contrive his plan of attack.

Alone again, Tom rolls his shoulders, feeling the medicine relieve part, if not at all, of the bothersome tightness there.

. . . . .

"What's wrong with you today?" Harry asks, after the third time Tom zones out from their conversation.

"Nothing," the Lieutenant replies, unconvincingly, as he restlessly shifts where he stands.

The turbolift they're on comes to a halt, and Kim hangs back, allowing Paris to exit before him.

"_Nothing_?" Harry repeats.

"I'm just thinking, Har," Tom defends, with a little too much edge. At which point Harry gives in, hoping whatever it is will pass.

The truth of the matter is that Tom _is_, in fact, thinking. Or, more to the point, _simmering_- in both his frustration with his stalled physical efforts and his new obsession with what he can do to better them.

It's true that he's being impatient with himself; it's only been two weeks of training. And he _is_ losing weight, which was the whole point of this, in the beginning.

Unfortunately, none of this allows him to let go of his present agitation, fed by the memory of that gloriously fast run in Gatineau, with Janeway.

_Maybe I just need a running buddy_, he decides. _Someone to keep me motivated, competitive. _

It isn't an unpleasant realization since Tom is clearly a social person by nature . The lone rub is that the companion for such a task would have to have some very specific characteristics. They can't be too fast, or else too slow; either would defeat the point. They can't be too awkward to be around socially, or ten kilometers could easily end up feeling like one hundred.

Not too chatty. Not too grumpy in the mornings. Nor, worse, too _chipper_.

The list of excluded applicants grows longer and longer, quickly including most of the ship before Tom and Harry have even made it to the mess hall doors.

Yesterday's awkwardness about Tom's hobby notwithstanding, Harry is, of course, an option. And as they stride into the crowded room, greeting people as they go, Tom considers his friend's relative merit.

Harry's good company, that goes without saying. And what he lacks given his shorter stride he makes up for in sheer athleticism. The main problem is that Harry likes to vary his workouts and, above all else, likes to workout alone.

Tom isn't sure why that last part is, exactly. But a little voice inside his head tells him that maybe, when Harry jogs the decks, he imagines himself as Captain Kim, defender of _Voyager _and wielder of the fastest compression rifle this side of the Milky Way.

"What?" Harry asks, nudging Tom with his elbow.

"Huh?" Tom says with a jerk.

"You were smirking. Just now."

"Sorry," Tom offers, biting the corner of his lip. "Random thought. Nothing of consequence."

They take a spot in line as Harry shoots his pal a long, skeptical look. Tom manages an apologetic shoulder shrug, deciding, privately, that he would be a better friend to Harry if he let him have his 'Captain Kim' time.

The pilot is spared further interrogation by the passing of a group of officers, led by Mike Ayala.

"Any warning on dinner, Mike?" Tom asks smiling, and Ayala promptly shakes his head.

"Nope," Ayala replies stalwartly. "It's like training drills at the Academy, Paris. Hints would be an unfair tactical advantage."

The small crowd around them laughs, and Tom decides to rise to the challenge. He never would have thought, back when Ayala quietly hated his guts, that he would come to thoroughly enjoy the former Maquis' rather dark brand of humor.

"We're all on the same team here," Tom pretends to plead. "And besides, by definition, there's no such thing as a strategic advantage in a _no win _scenario."

"Don't worry," Ayala says, following his deep clap of laughter. "The suffering builds character, Lieutenant."

"Some comrade in arms," Harry shakes his head, to which Ayala raises a dismissive hand.

"Inside the mess hall, it's every officer for himself." Adding with a dark smile, "god speed, gentlemen."

When the amused murmurs surrounding the banter die off, Tom and Harry are almost at the head of the line, worriedly eyeing two completely unidentifiable substances.

"I think I'm going for the brown stuff," Harry says, but Tom only shakes his head.

"I'm going for the purple. Not a comforting color, but at least it doesn't look _fuzzy_."

It's when they've filled their plates and scanned the room for a table that Tom is struck by sudden inspiration to his previous quandary.

"Har, will you save me a seat? I need to ask the Captain something."

Harry gives him yet another skeptical look, nodding nonetheless. A moment later, Tom is standing awkwardly next to Janeway's table, wondering why in the hell he thought this was a good idea.

Janeway's sitting at one of the smaller tables, meant for two, and in a few minutes she'll be joined by the Commander. Tom guesses as much, knowing that soon young Harry will be smiling from ear to ear, despite the numerous PADD's that clearly indicate it's a _working_ dinner.

"Hello, Tom," Janeway greets, carefully setting down on her coffee on the overcrowded table. "Something I can do for you?"

"As an officer in your service, Captain, I feel that it's my duty to warn you that your Chief Medical Officer is, at this very moment, plotting against you."

Janeway takes note of the way he comically stands at attention before her, her lips twisting into something between a smirk and grimace.

"I don't suppose he's filled you in on how he plans to ambush me?" she asks, scratching at her brow.

"No, ma'am," Tom deadpans. "I'm afraid he knows where my loyalties are and won't confide that kind of strategic information."

This last part succeeds in wringing a laugh from her, albeit a small one. The smile that appears on her face stays for only a few moments, before she realizes this is probably a lead into something else.

"I appreciate your warning," she says lightly. "Is there anything else?"

This is Tom's cue. Except that he feels like a colossal idiot. Is he really about to ask his Captain, a person _crushed_ with work and possessing no spare time, to join him in a daily run?

"Tom?" comes Janeway's slightly worried voice. And the pilot blushes, realizing he's been standing with his mouth slightly ajar.

"I was wondering if you wanted to run with me," he blurts, panicking under Janeway's watchful stare.

"Run with you?" Janeway says, a little uneasily. And immediately, Tom regrets his lack of impulse control.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I know you're probably too busy-"

"It's a lovely offer," Janeway cuts him off, and (Tom thinks) with the impressive appearance of genuineness. "It was great fun yesterday. It's just. . . Well. . . There is a lot of work to be done these days."

"Of course," Tom nods crispy, and then, seeing the Chakotay enter, thinks to retreat. Quickly. "Enjoy your dinner, if that's possible."

"You, too," Janeway replies, her expression faltering as she watches her pilot practically trip over his own feet in an effort to get away from her. "And Tom?" she calls, when he's made it a little ways away.

It won't do to ignore his Captain, no matter how much he wants to pretend he doesn't hear her call after him. However reluctantly, Tom turns, trying to plaster a pleasant, non-mortified expression on his face as he does so.

"I wouldn't eat the brownish dinner offering," she warns him, careful that Neelix's is no where in ear-shot. "However disconcerting the 'casserole' is with its vibrant hue, the brown dish. . . tickles in a _highly_ disturbing way on the way down."

"Thanks, Captain," Tom says. His discomfort momentarily supplanted with a different kind of horror. "I'll see if I can warn Ensign Kim, before it's too late."

"By all means."

Paris makes it to where the aforementioned officer sits waiting, arriving at the table just in time to block the first insidious forkful from reaching another innocent mouth.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Tom warns solemnly.

"Who says?"

"The Captain. She couldn't save herself, but apparently she's trying to save the crew."

"Noble woman," Harry pronounces, and quickly pushes away his tray.

"That she is," Tom agrees, generously sliding his bright but non-follicled dinner between himself and Kim.

. . . . .

"Aren't you going to get up?" B'Elanna asks groggily, her voice muffled by the proximity of her face to Tom's chest.

"I don't think so," Tom yawns, then orders the computer to reset his alarm.

"Giving up on running?" B'Elanna asks, already sliding back into sleep.

"No," Tom lies, to himself as well as the woman in his arms. "Just taking a day off."

Really, he knows how this will go. He'll take today off and then tomorrow, and before he knows it an entire month will have gone by, leaving him with no glimmer of remaining interest in what was previously a bright and shiny hobby.

The thing is, Tom can't bring himself to care. He's tired. His whole body is suffering. And presently, he's in a warm bed with a warm girlfriend.

There's nothing running can offer him this morning that can compete with his present locale.

"Perhaps we could engage in another form of cardio," Tom says, sliding his fingers through the strands of B'Elanna's hair that fall over his torso.

The engineer's response is muted sigh that tells her lover she's already succumbed to the land of the unconscious.

Ten minutes later, Tom is just about to join her there when the comm badge on his bedside beeps, causing B'Elanna to shift in protest.

"Paris here," he says quietly, angling his mouth away from B'Elanna ear.

"_Good morning, Lieutenant," _rings the Captain's distinctive voice. _"I'm on the holodeck, but you're not here. . . Were you running somewhere else today?"_

"Umm. No. . . I'm just. . . a little late getting started this morning." As his lips form the lie, he's already twisting out from the blankets and B'Elanna's form, mentally locating his athletic clothing and the spot on the floor where he last deposited his running shoes. "I'm sorry if you've been waiting, but if you'll give me a few minutes, I'll be right there."

"_No apology needed given the lack of notice. See you in five minutes, Holodeck Two?"_

The comm line closes and Tom leans over, placing an affectionate hand on his girlfriend's back.

"Bee?" he whispers carefully. "Bee, I'm going to get dressed and meet the Captain. Do you mind?"

"I don't care," B'Elanna groans, burying her face in Tom's pillow. "Just make all the _noise _stop."

With that, Tom drops a kiss on B'Elanna temple, strips off his night shorts and grabs for his running clothing.

. . . . .

"You changed your mind," Tom says with a wide if sleepy smile, coming into the already active holodeck.

"I did," Janeway says, with an air of gravity. "Sorry for turning you down yesterday."

"No need to explain," Tom rushes to say, then notes the way Janeway's expression looks oddly. . . guilty.

"Tom. . . I'm sorry to say I lied to you yesterday," the Captain confesses. And as she approaches him, he notes her gait. The way she looks decidedly _stiff_.

"Oh?"

"I cited my lack of my time, but really I was worried that I was a little unprepared. . . Physically."

"In a little pain after our run, Captain?"

Try as he may, Tom can't keep his tone from tipping into smugness, nor can he can keep his eyes from shining with amusement.

"What I'm about to say stays in this room, Mister. Got it?"

Tom nods, his gleeful, childish anticipation bubbling within him.

"I admit that while I felt energized immediately after our run, that evening and ever since I've experienced some . . . discomfort."

"Discomfort?" Tom asks, placing his arms behind his back. A nice, _respectful_ at-ease stance.

"Yes," Janeway replies curtly. "On top of having to cancel dinner plans and . . . minimize my movements on the bridge, I had to avoid that damn Sickbay appointment. Which means the Doctor is going to be trailing me for _stars know _how long."

"That's all very odd," Tom begins, cuing what Harry once, privately, referred to as his 'dumb blonde' expression. "I mean you said yourself- you were quite the runner in your day. Never even had to stretch, right?"

"Can it," Janeway orders, with enough steel in her voice that it takes Tom's amusement down, just a notch.

There aren't many people she would admit this kind of weakness to, and doing so now is a sign of her underlying person trust in Paris. Nevertheless, having her very arrogant words parroted back to her is only grinding in her present humiliation. It's both a blessing and a curse that her helmsman's very smart mouth happens to be attached to an even smarter brain.

"I will admit that my expectations were on the. . . _optimistic_ side," she continues, making a show of smoothing her exercise tunic. "But I'm now here, admitting to it. Which you should appreciate, as you seemed to experience some of the requisite post-excercise phenomena yourself."

"I was a little tired right after we ran," Tom admits. "But unlike what you experienced, _ma'am, _my fatigue and pain largely went away."

"A little tired?" Janeway repeats, now joining Tom in his gossamer-thin innocent act. "I seem to recall my conn officer being nearly catatonic at the helm that morning."

"Respectfully, that seems an exaggeration, Captain."

"Do you realize that after the _third_ time you replied to Commander Chakotay with a one-word answer, he teasingly asked you to be in charge of Neelix's next search for leola root- and _you agreed_?"

"I did?" Tom asks in horror.

"_You did."_

The absurdness of this last fact, of their immature debate- of all of it- strikes both of them at the same time. They each start laughing so hard they can hardly breathe.

"Oh, I have to stop laughing. . . It hurts," Janeway says, still chuckling, but now painfully clutching her side.

"Ya know, this is something I didn't think about when I considered running partners," Tom says suddenly.

"What?"

"That there's such a thing as being _too _competitive," he finishes. "I mean we're relatively easy company for each other- right up until we race each other right off a cliff."

Janeway makes a face at the image, but she can't exactly deny the thought. There's something about putting the two of them together that creates a synergy of competitive energy. It makes them a force to be reckoned with, tactically speaking, but it's also a little like working with anti-matter; a reliable source of power, right up to the millisecond it explodes and takes everything with it.

This last thought serves as an image that's even worse than the one Tom painted. Janeway puts her hand on her hips, feeling determined to overcome this apparent obstacle.

"We can work on that," she says. "Learn to push each other in a way that doesn't have the same destructive side-effects."

"It isn't just about pushing each other," he warns. "If we're going to take this seriously, there are going to have to be easy days. Runs when we aren't concerned about time. Concentrate on giving our bodies a break while still putting up kilometers."

"I know," she sighs. Recognizes, too, that this will be as hard for Tom as it will be for her. It isn't as if the man's a stranger to pushing the limits, with or without her company. "But I refuse to believe we can't do this. Together."

"Agreed," Tom nods. Then, with a dramatic sweeping motion, asks, "would the Captain care to stretch with me?"

"Only if she can find the wherewithal to bend at her waist."

This last admission pries loose another snigger from Paris. With Janeway being in this kind of pain, and his own limbs feeling like they're made of lead after two straight weeks of the same abuse, they're barely going to make it four kilometers at a brisk walk today.

"Tell the truth, Captain. Did you avoid Sickbay because of the Doctor? Or because you would have been coming in during my shift?"

"One of a Captain's few privileges is not having to answer certain inquiries," she replies coolly.

They both cringe as one of the joints in Janeway's ankle pops painfully. Tom could shoot her a victorious glance, but the truth is that he sympathizes, both with the pain and the accompanying humiliation.

"If it makes you feel better," he says, a few minutes later, "the Doctor caught me giving myself an analgesic."

Janeway stands up straight, her elbow presently pulled over her head as her eyebrows reach for heaven. She can only imagine the very _enlightening lecture _Tom received.

"Were you able to escape before he went on about our 'human preoccupation' with abusing our bodies?"

"No," Tom grouses, then smiles sweetly, "but right after that I created a diversion by reminding the Doc you were already supposed to be in Sickbay."

"Traitor."

"I confess I have but one life to give my ship. My sanity, on the other hand, thinks everyone is on their own when it comes to the Doctor's lectures."

It's the kind of banter a Captain shouldn't really be engaged in, even though Tom knows that the Doctor is, every photon of him, concerned with keeping them safe.

But, if Janeway's honest with herself, part of the pull of running with Tom is having time to shake free a few of the shackles of protocol.

Paris is a fleet brat and knows all the rules- even when he decides to break them. He may push her boundaries on occasion, but by and large he's someone who understands the burden she's under and (she's recognized for sometime) strives to make it feel a little lighter when they're together off-duty.

"You ready?" he asks finally, when they're each as stretched out as possible but feeling a little terrified of what this outing has in store.

"I don't know that there's a good answer to that question," Janeway sighs, making Tom's mouth tug up at the corners.

Such painful honesty is a start, at least.

"C'mon, Cap'n," Tom encourages, offering her his arm. "I promise not to comment on your creaking body if you promise to ignore my occasional whimpering."

"Tom," Janeway says, accepting the pilot's proffered support, " that is the most profoundly _thoughtful_ offer I've had all week."

. . . . .


End file.
